


Benched

by coolbyrne



Series: Cherry Wood and Whiskey [10]
Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 15:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: How did Jack's bench in the basement come into being? Married Slibbs.





	Benched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katiegirl901](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katiegirl901/gifts).

With a weary sigh, he tossed his keys on the table near the door while toeing off his shoes and dropping his bag. His jacket was next, wet from the short dash from his truck to their house.

_His_ truck.

_Their_ house.

The distinction never really occurred to him until now, as if his subconscious recognized his need for comfort. His ears craned to pick up a sound once he discovered she wasn’t curled up on the couch, filling the room with the quiet little snore she swore she didn’t do. Had he only been gone for the day, he probably would’ve got straight upstairs, but it had been a 3-day trial in Norfolk. Which meant she was likely in the one place she could feel closest to him in his absence. 

He would’ve smiled at how well he knew her, when he saw the light under the basement door, but in that moment, it hit him how much he just wanted to see her. The case had been months in the making, full of long days, hot showers and nights where being in her arms seemed to be the only thing that made sense in the world. With a quietness that the hour demanded, but not so quiet as to startle her, he opened the door. He was expecting to meet quiet in return, but instead, was greeted by a sound he was all too familiar with- sanding. Slowly descending the stairs, the picture became fuller as he got closer to the bottom.

“Hey,” she said brightly, turning to look at him, all smile and light, hair pulled back, safety goggles around her neck and sawdust sprinkled liberally over, well, just about everything. His foot hit the floor and he came to a dead stop, his eyes trailing from her beat up sneakers to her well-worn jeans that didn’t come with the rips they now adorned, up her clingy white tank top and to her ponytail. 

Instead of returning the welcome, he said, “I must be the smartest bastard on the planet.”

Wiping her hands on her thighs, she nodded. “While I wouldn’t disagree, what in particular brought that on?”

He spoke and walked towards her at the same time. “I married you. That either makes me the smartest bastard or the luckiest one.” He finished his sentence with a kiss that had a little more heat than a simple ‘hello’.

“Mmmm,” she hummed against his lips. “It’s just a bench,” she teased, anticipating the retaliatory bite on her bottom lip, though the word did seem to get his attention.

Turning his head but not breaking their contact, he looked at the piece. “Yeah, it’s a bench.” There was a touch of surprise to his voice. He knew she was handy with tools; the extra 7 days it took them to remodel the kitchen wasn’t due to her not being good with her hands. It was due to her being _too_ good with her hands. In other areas. So the idea of her building something on her own wasn’t entirely surprising, and yet it was, in an inexplicably sexy way.

“I want to pick up some cushions for it tomorrow,” she went on, as if she built benches from scratch every day. “Something to tie on that won’t take away from the cedar. I put a storage area underneath. Thought maybe you could put your scrap pieces of wood in there, or your-” His attention had gone from the bench and back to her, his eyes stormy sea blue. “What?” When he reached up to pull the tie out of her hair, she shook her head. “I’m a mess. Let me take a shower first.”

“No,” he replied, threading his fingers through her hair and using his hips to direct her backwards to the boat. The heat in his voice was unmistakable.

“Oh.” She recognized the tone and the intent and let him lead her. She wasn't going to ask him about the case or how it went. Even if the answer hadn't been written in his face, the slope of his shoulders, the way he kissed her to make himself forget, the basement was their reprieve, their solace to share with each other.

His mouth lowered to hers but purposely missed, landing on the pulse point in her neck. “Tell me about this bench.”

The contrast between his actions and his words caught her off-guard. “What?”

“The bench,” he repeated, drawing his tongue up to her ear, pressing her against the boat. “Walk me through it. Four by fours?”

She tried to focus on the prompt and not his mouth. “Yeah. For the legs and braces. Had to make a tapering jig to give the back an angle.”

His chuckle rolled along her jaw. “You made a tapering jig?”

“You didn’t have one.” Almost without thought, her fingers curled around the back of his head. “Listen, honey, I know you’re old school and don’t like power tools-” A growl into her neck sent a thrill through her. “- but you should at least use the ones you have hiding.”

“They’re not hiding.”

“Not hiding in the corner under the tarp?” she asked rhetorically. “You have an entire set of rabbeting bits you haven’t even opened.”

His fingers began to tug her tank from her jeans and the hitch in her breath when he popped the button pushed him tighter into her hips. “Keep goin’.”

She laughed at the order, considering she was thinking the same thing. “I bought you a plug cutter, because I wasn’t chiselling those by hand.”

“Send me the bill.”

“Oh, I’ll collect.”

It was a threat and a promise that received its reward from his hands that slid up under her shirt to cover her breasts. _His_ reward was in the way she arched into his palms.

“Tell me your best secret.” He groaned the request against her lips.

“I have no secrets from you; we’re married.”

He knew that wasn’t true, and so did she. They were both adults who had spent enough time on the planet to collect a book of secrets. But they had always shared the biggest ones with each other, and had from the very start.

“Don’t be a smart ass. Woodworking. Tell me a secret.”

“Ooh,” she purred, positioning his thigh between hers and letting him know she was enjoying the contact. “Is this some kind of carpenter dirty talk?”

His hand slid between her skin and the cotton that was keeping him from what he wanted. And if the way she jerked into his touch was anything to go by, what she wanted. Her breath hitched again, her eyes heavy-lidded. But his fingers waited.

“Tell me.”

“Touch me first.”

It was just like her to make a demand when she wasn’t in any position to do so. Her will and her confidence was just as sexy as watching her crumble under his mouth. He could never- would never- deny her. Sliding his hand down, he curled his fingers under her and drew them up through heat and wet.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“What did you expect?” she half-moaned. “My husband's been away for 3 days, gets home a day early, looks at me like I’m an oasis in the desert, then pins me up against his boat? And you don’t expect me to be absolutely soaking?” She tried to take advantage of the way he always got beautifully distracted when she called him her husband, and angled her hips towards his touch again, but he was stubborn enough to stay just out of reach. “If you mix a small amount of salt with your glue, it’ll help stop the pieces from slipping when you put the clamp on, okay?” She grabbed his wrist but waited; she was going to take what she wanted, but she wanted him in on it, too. 

“Okay.”

With the smallest change in his eyes, she pushed his hand down and sighed at just how well they fit.

As if reading her mind, he whispered against her ear. “Like dovetail splines.”

She pulled some strength from God knows where, because all of her focus seemed to be on his hand between her legs. “So… this _is_ carpenter dirty talk.”

He brushed his day old scruff against her cheek and felt her nuzzle right back. "Never underestimate a good, long screw."

Her head tilted back, letting out the laughter. "You're horrible. For that, I demand you take me up to bed."

His hand slipped from her jeans when given the promise of something more. "Like you weren't thinkin' it."

She murmured her admission. "Was trying to figure out how to use 'nailed'."

Somehow, she brought out the adolescent and the man in him, and for that- among so many other reasons- he loved her.

"Don't wanna try the bench?" he asked

She ran a finger across his lips before her mouth followed. "Why do you think I want to get cushions?" While she whispered, her hand continued to trail down until she cupped him through his pants. "Mmm, someone's got wood."

"That's what you're givin' me?"

She pouted and pulled away. "I was under a lot of pressure, okay? It's almost midnight and you stole my thunder with the screw line." He bent his head to chuckle, allowing her the chance to switch positions. She pressed up against him, kissed him hard and thoroughly before tugging him by his fingers. "Take me to bed," she told him again, this time less demanding and more yearning.

"I'll be up in a minute," he replied, bringing their joined hands up to his lips and kissing her palms. He didn't need to explain because he knew she didn't need to ask.

She returned the favour by pressing her lips to his palms. "Take your time."

He watched her leave, a part of him amazed at the thought that when he got upstairs, she would be there, in their shower or in their bed, and he wondered if he’d ever get used to the idea. He hoped he never did, hoped he would never take it for granted. The bench called out to him and he sat down, its sturdiness welcoming his weight. The seat was split into two storage areas and he lifted the one at his side, the hinge gliding silent and smooth. The back was angled at 5 degrees and he knew from experience it wasn’t easy- you had to cut every piece of wood at an angle to make it all fit. You get one piece wrong, get the angle off by an eighth of an inch, and it would all be off. Anyone could take two pieces of wood and nail the ends together. It took someone with skill to do what she had done. His fingertips, with their years of experience looking for imperfections, ran along the arm, finding the wood sanded flush and smooth, the reward for hard work. He wondered if she saw him that way- a reward for her hard work, because he knew he wasn’t an easy man. Yet time and patience, as it always did, paid off in the end.

Speaking of patience-

“You comin’, stud?” A laugh that was nearly a giggle followed the question, as if she couldn’t believe her own adolescent pun.

His chin lowered into his chest and he chuckled. No, he’d never take it for granted. Standing, he gave the bench one last pass with his hand before starting the trip up the stairs.

…..

-end.


End file.
